


More Than You Could Ever Know

by LayALioness



Series: 12 Days of Bellarke! [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 16:45:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5341286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke doesn't mean to get a nemesis, it just happens. </p><p>But then he turns into a Christmas-loving nerd, and she's not sure what to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than You Could Ever Know

**Author's Note:**

> look this was just supposed to be like 4k of radio dj-rivalries, but it sort of turned into you've got mail? which i am of course okay with.
> 
> title from all i want for christmas, because it's a CLASSIC.

Listen, Clarke doesn’t _mean_ to get a nemesis every year. It just happens.

“It’s like your superpower,” Raven says, a little wonderingly, as Clarke types so viciously her keys shake with each word. It’s probably not fair to take her anger out on the keyboard, but. Life’s not fair. Fuck the keyboard. “You’re the shittiest X-Man of all time. You’re the X-Man no one picks for their weird jumpsuit team.”

“I could take them,” Clarke sniffs, petulant, and hits _save_. “Jumpsuits are super restricting. Fighting in them would be hard.”

“They’re superheroes, Clarke,” Raven points out, because she’s an asshole. “Professor X can _stop time_.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got spite,” Clarke says. “And the power of the Underdog. I’m scrappy—the scrappy, small ones always win.”

“Tell that to Hamilton.”

Raven has listened to, like _three_ songs from Hamilton, and only because Clarke made her—but she still likes to shoehorn the reference into every conversation she has now, so she sounds like an intellectual.

“Seriously, though, how did you even manage to get one this fast? Isn’t this like some new record for you or something? It’s only the second week of the semester.”

“It’s a gift,” Clarke shrugs, reaching for her sweater and the sneakers with more duct tape than soles, that she only really keeps out of spite, by this point. When she’s finally done with them, there will be nothing left, and she won’t toss them out a second before that. “I’ll see you for dinner.”

“If you don’t die in some blood feud by then,” Raven chirps, and Clarke flips her off on her way out the door.

The thing is, Clarke isn’t really a grudge person—well, at least, she _tries_ not to be. But AUXM Guy fucking deserves it, okay?

AUXM Guy is the official name that Wells and Raven have come up with. If Clarke had her way, she’d just call him That Asshole, but then no one would know who she was talking about, since she calls everyone an asshole, at least once. She’s called the stairs an asshole, when they trip her, and the espresso machine at her work, when the steam burns her wrist. _Asshole_ is a very general term, really, so she can understand the need for specifics.

Clarke got the job at the university radio station sort of by accident—she’d actually gone in about the ad looking for painters to work on some sort of big collage on the building’s west wall. But apparently they were also conducting open interviews for the radio gig that day, in the same office, which Clarke didn’t actually know until halfway through the conversation, when Wick offered her the job on the spot.

“You just have a good voice for radio,” he shrugged, even though she was like ninety-nine percent sure he was just happy to hire someone who wasn’t obviously on meth. Meth is a big thing on their campus, and she still isn’t really sure why. She knew a guy once who made some out of the brake cleaner, for his _car_.

But a job is a job and the radio seemed pretty interesting—she’d be filling the four-thirty to ten-fifteen slot, which basically just meant hooking her itunes up to the computer and hitting shuffle, pausing every now and again to introduce the song, or read from the printed out campus newsletter left on her keyboard each afternoon.

The only other people she really interacts with at the station were Wick, the manager and a grad student whose coursework seems to involve a lot of messing around with wires in ways that do not look entirely safe, and Maya, who runs the ten-fifteen to four am shift, which seems cool. She does an hour-long horror story segment, and plays a lot of Twilight Zone music.

For her first few weeks there, Clarke was feeling pretty confident. She started actually making _playlists_ instead of just winging it with a bunch of Disney songs, and playing _Paint It Black_ over and over. Raven caught her making actual cover art for the playlists, even though Clarke hadn’t even touched a physical CD since she was like fourteen, and still makes fun of her for it.

And then—she got a caller.

 _In theory_ , Clarke’s show was a call-in show, so people could do requests, but she’d never actually gotten a caller before, and she didn’t really know what to do. She didn’t even know how to put the call on speaker, so everyone else could hear.

But, after half a dozen frat parties, where she’s had to talk her way out of more than a few unpleasant situations, Clarke’s now a pro at improv.

“Hi! Welcome to AUXM All Stars, I’m Clarke, how may I help you?”

There was a little snort on the other end of the line, and then a guy’s voice. “Are you aware you sound like one of those 1-800 banking numbers?”

Clarke frowned, because yeah, okay, maybe she did sound a little too peppy shopkeeper, but who the hell did this guy think he was? His tone was more than a little condescending, which is one of the easiest ways to rile her up.

Plus, there’s the whole nemesis thing. It’s not like it’s _hard_.

“Sorry, asshole,” she snapped. “There, unhelpful enough for you?”

The guy hummed a little, clearly not at all bothered, which just irked her more. If someone is trying to piss you off, you should get pissed off, that’s just proper etiquette.

“I was wondering if you played any actual music during your music show?”

Clarke’s mouth was near the mic already, so she knew he could hear her teeth grind. Seriously, who the _fuck_. “If you don’t like the music selection, you can always change the station,” she said, keeping her voice sickeningly sweet. “There’s a radio dial for a reason. Otherwise, I hope you have a day.”

“You hope I have a _day_?”

“I’m not allowed to say the rest of it on air,” she said, prim, and then hung up on him, like the mature adult she was.

She stewed about the call for the rest of the night and most of the morning, but wasn’t actually _nervous_ about it until she headed in for work. She didn’t exactly behave professionally—she called him an asshole. On air. There’s a record.—and she wasn’t sure what to expect, whether she’d have to apologize to their listeners, or maybe even be fired.

It wasn’t like she _needed_ the job, since her mom was more than happy to keep her bank account well-stocked. For Abby, financial security is one of the highest ways to show that she cares. But Clarke actually _liked_ working at the station, and she liked being just that much more independent, and she’d never actually been fired before, so she didn’t really want to start.

But when she ducked into the station, apology on the tip of her tongue, she found the whole daytime staff crowded around Wick’s enormous apple computer, listening to her yell at the caller. When she hung up, they all cheered, and then pressed _replay_ , she was sure not for the first time.

“So, I’m not fired?” she guessed, and Wick grabbed her up in his arms, and spun her around in a circle.

“Are you kidding?” he grinned. “Our ratings were twice as high last night!”

“Twice as high as what?”

“As _ever_. Feel free to be sassy on the radio, whenever,” he shrugged, and that was that.

Or, at least, Clarke _thought_ that was that, because the guy didn’t call back that night, or the one after.

Instead, he printed out a one-page miniature essay on why her music taste was absurd, and posted it to the student bulletin in the communications building. She’s pretty sure he only hung up the one, but then someone saw it and found it funny, so soon there were copies all over the place—in the campus coffee shop, in the lecture halls, in her _building_ , even at the radio station.

“He wrote it in iambic pentameter,” Monty, one of the guys who worked on the radio’s sound system said, rereading his _own_ copy, sounding a little awed.

“I am going to destroy him,” Clarke said, casual as anything, the same way she might mention the weather.

Because, honestly, she’d had like _five_ nemeses by now, she was practically a professional. This was going to be a piece of delicious and spite-filled cake.

Except, it wasn’t.

Oh, she definitely got him back for the essay—by spending a very satisfying thirty minutes tearing apart anonymous bullies, on air, and getting a few new callers all taking her side and defending her honor, which was sweet and, more importantly, extremely gratifying.

The next day, someone had photoshopped her face as a mugshot, wearing a clipart cutout tiara on her head, with a placard that says PRINCESS in big letters where her name should be. It’s honestly pretty cool, and they chose a good picture of her—her student ID one, which she’s still incredibly proud of.

But it was still clearly a declaration of war, and she was not about to lose.

Things went on like that for a while—she’d make some vague call-out during her show, and the next day find some sort of vague sarcastic (and, unfortunately, witty) response posted up all over campus.

It got so bad that Wick brought a white board into the station, and all that’s written on it in dry-erase marker is CLARKE: 42 GUY (with a picture of that gray Facebook icon and a large question mark where the eyes should be): 43

Yesterday’s barb was a picture of her taken at last week’s pep rally. She was wearing a pair of green and black striped tights and her biggest clunky boots, so she’d look taller. Honestly, that kind of outfit isn’t abnormal for her, but _of course_ The Asshole had to be an asshole about it.

He’d opened the picture up in paint, or something, and pasted IT’S NOT HALLOWEEN ANYMORE, PRINCESS.

It’s not like this is the first time Clarke’s gotten shit for the way she dresses, and it annoys her every time, but the fact that this time the shit is _anonymous_ —somehow, that makes it worse.

So she makes three dozen copies of her own picture, that faceless gray icon, but instead of the question mark, it just says THEN WHY ARE YOU DRESSED LIKE A TOOL?

It’s probably her best work, and she goes to actual art school. Even Raven laughed at it, and Raven doesn’t really tend to laugh—she snickers, or chuckles, or gives a wry grin—so that’s pretty high praise, honestly.

Clarke hangs them up in the usual haunts; the baristas at the coffee shop have gotten pretty used to her, by now, and she’s almost tempted to ask who hangs the copies meant for her, but. That would be cheating.

“I just don’t understand why you won’t let me find out who he is,” Raven whines. She’s laying upside down on her bed, letting her head hang over the edge of the mattress so all the blood rushes to it. She claims it helps her think, but Clarke suspects she just likes the dizziness. “I wouldn’t even have to hack anything,” she adds, as extra incentive. “I could just ask around—it’s hard not to notice the weirdo who keeps hanging up stalker pics in the quad. I’m sure someone’s noticed.”

“Oh, definitely,” Clarke agrees, putting the finishing touches on that night’s playlist. And if there are a few extra songs from _The Lion King_ —maybe they’re not _all_ out of spite. Just like, half. “But then I’d know who he is, and that takes the fun out of it. If I know who he is, I can just find his dorm, and brawl. This way, I get to sound clever while vague-bashing him on the radio. It’s great.”

“I take it back,” Raven makes a face. “You’re _both_ weirdos. And when you meet, you’re definitely gonna bang.”

Clarke levels her roommate with her most serious glare. “This is _war_ , Raven. I’m not going to sleep with the enemy.”

“You’ve slept with every enemy you’ve ever had,” Raven points out, ticking the names off on her fingers. “Anya, high school debate team—banged. Lexa, first year of university—banged. Finn, banged before he was an enemy, but still counts.”

“I didn’t bang Cage,” Clarke argues, petulant, and Raven nods a little.

“True. But the point stands, Griffin. You use your weird nemesis superpowers to start some weird sexual tension warfare, and then eventually it explodes and you make out.”

“Shut up, and move before you go blind,” Clarke grumbles, because it’s not like she’s _wrong_. Raven grins, but slides upright, anyway.

It’s the second day of December, and they’ve just gotten back from Thanksgiving break. Ark doesn’t necessarily get _cold_ in the winter, just mostly gray and windy, and Clarke likes to dress for the season, so her tights are red with white polka dots, and she’s wearing her brightest green dress.

Clarke likes Christmas, in a very general sort of way—which is to say, she’s a fan of peppermint flavored coffee creamer, and presents, and that one Charlie Brown movie is okay. But her family was never very religious when she was growing up, and her dad was the really festive one, so once he died she and her mom just sort of spent the holidays sleeping in and watching those Hallmark movies that are the _worst_ every other time of year, but somehow manage to work in December.

So to be honest, she doesn’t really have any carols on her itunes, and she hasn’t thought to bother getting any, since she didn’t think anyone would care.

She’s just two hours into the show when she gets her first caller. She’s gotten a few, since the first guy, and most of them are pretty simple, requesting some obscure Spice Girls song she played once, or that song from _Pete’s Dragon_ , “the one with the candle.”

“AUXM All-Stars, what’s up?” She’s gotten the hang of call-in’s, by now. Basically the rule of thumb is; no one really cares, so be chill about it.

“Yeah, um, hi,” a guy starts, sounding awkward enough it’s endearing. He probably hasn’t ever called in before, and is a little nervous about it. “I was just—do you have any Christmas carols?”

Clarke blinks a few times, in surprise. “You know it’s like, the _second_ day of December, right?”

“Trust me, I know,” he says. “I wait for it all year. It’s the first socially acceptable day to play Christmas music.”

Clarke laughs, in spite of herself. “Wow, I didn’t know that kind of festivity was real.”

“Very real,” he confirms. “And very serious.”

“Deadly,” Clarke agrees. “Any special requests?”

There’s a pause and when he answers, he actually sounds a little shy, and Clarke grins. “ _Deck the Halls,_ if you have it.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she promises, but she’s already paying the two dollars. Then she finds a punk rock version by Me First and the Gimme Gimmes, so she buys that one, too. “Thanks for calling!”

“Thanks for answering,” he says, sounding genuine. “Happy holidays.”

“You too, dude,” she says, because _be chill about it_ , and hangs up. She runs the classic version of the song first, and then the punk one, and then goes back to her regular playlist, and spends the rest of her night pretending to do Trig, and playing the ball-and-brick game on her phone.

Maya shows up to relieve her eventually, and they make small talk as the last song plays out.

“Any seasonal stories planned?” Clarke wonders, and Maya nods.

“Christmas vampires,” she says, serious. “And Jewish werewolves, for Hanukkah. I’m not sure what I’ll do for Kwanza, but I’d like to cover all bases.”

“Cyborgs, definitely,” Clarke suggests, because Raven is a terrible influence.

She doesn’t really give the Christmas caller much thought until the next night, when he calls again.

“So,” he says evenly, and it seems like he’s gotten over his call-in nerves. “I’m not saying you _have_ to play three different carols, since it’s the third of the month, but I’m not _not_ saying that.”

Clarke laughs, feeling charmed. It’s been a while since she’s flirted with anyone, and she’s honestly missed it. Plus, the phone line gives it an air of impossibility; it’s not like it’s going anywhere, which makes it easier. She can’t really mess anything up.

“What are you, that Will Ferrell character from _Elf_?”

“You mean Buddy?” he says, incredulous. “His name is literally Buddy the Elf, how do you forget that?”

“Shut up,” she grins. “I saw it when I was like _nine_ , okay? I have a shitty memory.”

He hums a little. “Not to sound weird,” he hedges, “But I’ve listened to your show for a while, and you definitely don’t seem to be the forgetful type.”

“You’re referencing the Feud, aren’t you.”

He barks out a laugh, louder than he probably means to, and it makes her feel a little smug. “Jesus, you _named_ it? The _Feud_ —god. Are you never gonna forgive that guy?”

“He’s an asshole,” Clarke says, mild, second nature by now. “But, I don’t know. Maybe. I’m a very nice and wholesome person,” she adds, and he laughs. “But it’s up to him, I guess.”

He clears his throat, which makes sense, as he’d really just called to request some songs, and she sort of laid out her weird, petty grudge on him. “So, uh—the carols? I call dibs on _Jingle Bells_ , but I’ll leave the others up to your interpretation.”

“I like how you’ve just decided I’m definitely doing three,” she muses.

“Oh, come on. It’s the season for giving.”

“As far as I’m concerned, it’s the season for free stuff. But, as always, I’ll see what I can do. Thanks for calling.”

“We’ll see if you’re still thanking me when I ask for four, tomorrow,” he says, and it makes her stomach flutter a little, knowing he’s planning to call back.

“You might not want to, after this,” she warns, because she likes being a cryptic asshole, and hangs up.

She plays _Jingle Bells_ , as promised, and then _Making Christmas_ , just to be an asshole. And then she throws in some steampunk synthesized version of _Carol of the Bells_ , just for fun.

Raven looks a little unimpressed with her when she gets back to their dorm, which means she must have been listening when Clarke was flirting with the Christmas caller.

“I can’t believe you have a crush on _two_ weird callers,” she says, disgusted. “You don’t even know their names, Clarke. You don’t even know what they look like!”

“Don’t be shallow,” Clarke says, to piss her off, and Raven throws a piece off her metal sculpture at Clarke’s head. It’s all made from different computer hard drives, recycled from the dumpster outside the communications building, and she’s not really sure _what_ it’s supposed to be, but right now it sort of resembles a tree.

But, it’s abstract art, so it could be literally anything. Raven could say it’s a metaphor for the human condition, and she’d probably still get an A.

“Besides, they’re not _crushes_ ,” she adds, which is probably the first argument she should have made. “AUXM Guy is an asshole, whom I hate, and will punch in the face if I ever meet him. Christmas caller sounds cute, but we’ve only talked once—it’s not like I’m ready to marry him.”

“Of course you’re not ready to marry him,” Raven snaps. “This isn’t _Love Actually_.” Raven claims to hate _Love Actually_ with every fiber of her being, and makes a big point of complaining about it every Christmas, even though Clarke knows she likes to binge watch it every December underneath a million blankets, and cry about Emma Thompson. “I’m just saying—you should maybe reevaluate your love life.”

“You’re pretending you don’t want to date my best friend,” Clarke says, petulant, and Raven scowls. “Even though he’s tried to ask you out like a billion times, already.”

It’s a conversation she’s been meaning to bring up for a while, really, just under much better circumstances. Namely, when they were both drunk, so Raven would be more open and emotional, and Clarke could blame it on the alcohol in the morning.

But, now works too, she supposes.

“Who says I’m pretending?” Raven demands, like it isn’t fucking obvious every time she practically runs away when Wells suggests they do something, just them.

“I do,” Clarke says, pointedly. “Because I _know_ you, and I know you’re just scared he’s going to hurt you like Finn, or pressure you like Wick—even though it’s _Wells_ , so you know he wouldn’t.”

“No one can know that,” Raven mutters, but Clarke isn’t done.

“Regardless, it’s fine if you don’t want to date him. Just stop giving him false hope.”

Raven’s head snaps up to gape at her, but Clarke narrows her eyes, so she knows she means it.

“You know what I mean,” Clarke adds. “You’re all over him, when we hang out—which is _fine_. But you know he’s waiting for you to come around, so if you’re not going to, at least let him move on.”

It’s probably the most serious she’s ever been with Raven, and that’s including all their Finn conversations, which were each more painful than the last.

Clarke almost expects her to argue, but eventually Raven just sighs down at her sculpture, glaring at the green-and-gold spines like they’ve personally offended her.

“You’re right,” she decides. “I’m leading him on, and that’s shitty.”

It’s the quickest she’s ever seen Raven surrender, which she assumes is because of Wells’s influence. That’s the main reason she tries not to hang out with him so much when she has a feud going—they still study together every week at the library, but that just involves a lot of him looking disappointed that she’s not being the bigger person.

“Okay,” Clarke says, a little unsure what to do, now. She’s not used to her arguments actually _ending_ , and she’s not sure what people do, after. A cool-down game of Scrabble?

(To be fair, Clarke is pretty much always in the mood for Scrabble. There doesn’t need to be an actual _reason_.)

“Ugh,” Raven says, clearly on the same page. “This is awkward— _Star Wars_?”

“ _Star Wars_ ,” Clarke agrees, and Raven fetches her laptop because it has the better spyware, so they can download shit illegally without risking as many viruses.

She stops by the student bulletin before work, just to see what bullshit AUXM Guy left, that she can tear apart on air, but instead she finds another photoshopped picture of her, this one from last year’s yearbook. He’s painted her face over a ballerina’s body, with a wooden nutcracker in hand, and soft snowflakes all around.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS, PRINCESS. TRUCE?

There’s only the one copy, so she takes it, still in a daze by the time she reaches the station.

Monty’s there, swearing softly at the faulty espresso machine, which was graciously donated from the faculty lounge, only after it broke.

“Monty, you know who AUXM Guy is, right?” Clarke asks, and then immediately regrets it. She only suspects he does because a few weeks ago, she walked in on him and Miller, his boyfriend and the volunteer sports announcer who drops by every other Friday, whispering about it, suspiciously.

Monty’s looking a little wary, like he can’t tell if it’s a test. “Um, yeah, kind of. He does a history podcast for the school website, I think. And he’s in one of Miller’s Classical seminars.”

Clarke nods. “Right.” Then she thrusts the picture at him, because she has no idea what else to do. She doesn’t _like_ being thrown off, because it means she has to completely recalibrate—and, even worse, it means she might be _wrong_.

But Monty just looks at it for a minute and says “Huh,” before taking a sip from his mug. “So, does this mean it’s over?”

“I’m not sure,” Clarke admits, because she isn’t. She’s spent months hating AUXM Guy, and building her afternoons around hating him in clever and funny ways. She’s fallen asleep coming up with witty responses, or jokes at his expense. It’s basically been the biggest part of her semester, which, to be fair, is probably not a good thing, but. She’s not sure what she’ll do, if she can’t hate him anymore. The Feud was her biggest hobby.

She still isn’t sure what to do, until halfway through her show, when she says “And as for AUXM Guy, if you’re listening; the record is being erased. Literally, it’s a dry-erase board, and my manager is erasing it as we speak. He’s also crying, because apparently our mutual hatred increased the show’s ratings, which—I’m still not sure who rates it? But, anyway. Tis the season of forgiveness, and giving in general, and so that’s what I’m going to do, because I am fundamentally better.”

A call comes in within minutes, and she knows who it is before she even answers. “Are you proud of me?”

“So proud,” he says, and she can hear the smile in his voice, before he clears his throat a little. “And, uh, for what it’s worth? That guy probably doesn’t hate you. I don’t think it’s really possible for anyone to hate you.”

“You’d be surprised,” she says, keeping her voice light, because he can’t see her flushing.

Wick can, though, and he’s smirking at her through the window. She flicks him off.

“Any requests, or are you sick of my taste in Christmas carols?”

He huffs a laugh. “Your taste is pretty cool, actually. I like punk rock.”

The way he says _punk rock_ makes her smile. He sounds like an old man, trying to blend in with some teenagers. “Sure you do. But I’m assuming you have a nauseatingly classic song you want to hear, first.”

“Hey, classic can be cool too,” he defends. “ _12 Days of Christmas_.”

“Oh, I know that one,” Clarke chirps, getting it up immediately. She may or may not have downloaded all the carols she could find, in anticipation. She likes to be prepared. “Five gold rings, right?”

“ _Everyone_ knows that one,” he says, but he sounds fond about it. “Go wild with the other three, as usual.”

“I’ll try not to disappoint.”

“You never do,” he says, easy, and hangs up before she can, which somehow feels like he’s won something.

Wick comes in with a Cheshire grin, and perches on her desk.

“Nevermind,” he decides. “I’m no longer sad about losing AUXM Guy—Christmas Carol Guy is way better. It’s _romance_ , and everyone likes a good romance during Christmas.”

“Not Raven,” Clarke points out. “She watches all the _Scream_ movies on Christmas Eve, to remind herself she has no feelings.”

Wick makes the face he always does when Raven is mentioned, somewhere between a smile and a wince, because they’re still _friends_ , fundamentally, but he’ll always want more than that, and they both know it.

“Wrench Monkey excluded,” he shrugs. “My point is, the ratings are definitely not going to suffer, and that’s what’s important, here.”

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees, dry. “Definitely not my love life.”

Wick pats her on the shoulder before leaving. “Priorities, Griffin. Ratings _always_ trump love life.”

At first, Clarke shrugs it off as Wick being Wick, but then to her dismay, he’s actually _right_. People seem to be actively invested in whatever it is between her and the caller. The white board now reads COUNTDOWN TO CLARKE AND CHRISTMAS CALLER GUY FALLING IN LOOOOOOVE, with a bunch of hearts all around it, and the Facebook icon, with Mr. Darcy from the 2005 _Pride and Prejudice_ printed out and glued over it.

If the caller knows about their strange fanbase, he doesn’t mention it. He calls every day, around six o’clock, which she assumes is when he gets out of work, or something. Their chats get longer and longer, and sometimes she’ll take him off the air, like when he asks why she’s not sold on the Christmas spirit, and she tells him about her dad. He tells her about his mom, after that, and about raising his little sister on practically nothing, about how he tried to make sure she still had a better Christmas each year.

“I used to get her little presents, from the Goodwill, or the Dollar Tree,” he explains. “I’d wrap them up in newspaper and leave one by her bed every morning for the twelve days leading up to Christmas, and then on the actual day, she’d get the Big Gift—you know, like a My Little Pony, or Barbie doll, or something. Those Malibu Beach Polly Pocket sets.”

“You sound like a really great older brother,” she says, and when he tries to shrug it off, she keeps going. “No, seriously. I wish I had someone like you in my life. Everyone should have someone like you in their life.”

There’s a pause, and she’s worried she’s overstepped, but then he says, quiet, “You could have me in your life. If you want.”

Clarke flushes all down her neck, suddenly very glad she had the foresight to take him off speaker. In the background, _Hakuna Matata_ plays.

“You know, this whole relationship feels very one sided,” she says, once her mouth isn’t too dry to speak with. “You’ve known my name since the beginning, but you’ve never told me yours.”

He laughs a little, sounding amused. “Bellamy. Bellamy Blake.”

Clarke grins, ducking her face, even though it’s past dark and no one’s there to see it. They’ve been talking for two hours. “I’m Clarke Griffin. Nice to meet you.”

She gets home to find Raven curled up on Wells’s chest in her bed. Wells is sleeping, because he has a fucking _insane_ course load, and never gets enough rest, unless Raven physically forces him. Raven’s awake, and she meets Clarke’s eye steadily.

“I’m not leading him on,” she says, quiet, so he won’t wake. Her arm’s curled around his stomach, and tightens instinctively. “I’m—ready, I guess. Or, trying to be.”

“Nice,” Clarke shrugs, and walks over to high five her. “Congrats on the boyfriend.”

“Now it’s your turn,” Raven says, because everything’s a competition, if you try hard enough.

“I know his name now,” she shrugs, mostly because maybe if she _pretends_ she’s not freaking out about it, she won’t. “Want to stalk him on social media with me?”

Raven scoffs. “Is that even a question? Yes, obviously.”

Bellamy Blake is apparently not on social media.

“What the fuck,” Raven says, glowering at her phone, like it’s at fault, here. “Who doesn’t have Facebook, seriously? How fucking old is this guy?”

“He’s a student here,” Clarke shrugs, trying not to feel too disappointed. They look at the student registry too, just to cover their bases, but apparently he was absent on picture day, so there’s just a white box with his name in it.

“What if he doesn’t exist?” Raven muses. “What if this is like that movie _Her_ , and you’re falling in love with a robot?”

“Like you wouldn’t want me to date a robot,” Clarke says, and Raven nods her head, because it’s true.

“Have fun tracking down your Skynet boyfriend,” she says, smacking a kiss to Clarke’s cheek, before rolling over even more on top of Wells, until he snorts a little in his sleep.

“Thanks,” Clarke says, dry, and turns out the light.

In the end, it’s Wick’s fault, which seems appropriate. He’s at fault for most things, as far as Clarke’s concerned.

It’s been a while since he’s played her first, and only, verbal confrontation with AUXM Guy, but apparently he was feeling nostalgic that day, so when Clarke walks into the station, she finds them all crowded around the computer, listening.

And, well, she’s feeling a little nostalgic too, so she sits down right as Wick hits _replay_.

_“Are you aware you sound like one of those 1-800 banking numbers?”_

Clarke goes rigid in her chair, because _she recognizes that voice_ —and not from that conversation. No, that voice is now ingrained in her mind as warm, and charming, and thoughtful—as _Bellamy_.

But right now she’s listening to AUXM Guy, and it’s not even a question. They are one and the same.

Bellamy is her nemesis—or, was. Barely two weeks ago. Just after the Christmas calls started.

She can tell the others haven’t noticed yet, or if they have, they haven’t said anything. Wick certainly doesn’t seem to know, so Clarke just makes some sort of excuse, like flossing her teeth or something equally ridiculous, and runs away.

She’s jittery throughout the first two hours of her shift, leg jumping under the table as she flicks aimlessly through her queue, waiting for the phone to ring.

It does, and she doesn’t bother switching it off air. She sort of wants the world to hear this, in a vindictive kind of way.

“Hey,” he says, huffing a little, like he’s been walking fast. There’s that grin in his voice, that’s making her head hurt. He _knew_ , and he _lied_ , and she feels a little nauseas. “So, I was thinking—”

“Fun fact,” she says, cutting him off. “AUXM Guy is apparently Christmas’s biggest fan.” There’s no response, so she keeps going. “In fact, you two seem to have a lot in common—like calling me, like _lying_ , like _having the same fucking name_.”

She’s mildly aware that she just said the word _fucking_ on air, which she’s pretty sure she’s not allowed to do, but. She can’t care that much about it, now.

“Clarke,” he says, sounding pained, and she almost doesn’t care about that, either. “I can explain—”

“Don’t,” she snaps. “I know you like your mysteries; keep that one.” She pushes the End Call button more forcefully than necessary, because she can’t get the satisfaction of actually slamming down the receiver.

Through the window, she can see Wick, Monty and Jasper, the mid-shift guy, staring, wide-eyed and nervous. She ignores them, and plays through three whole playlists, screening every call that comes in. She doesn’t need her listeners’ pity, well-intentioned as it is. What she _really_ needs is to find Bellamy Blake, and punch his fucking teeth in, but. She doesn’t even know what he looks like.

She could have a dozen classes with him, and she’d never know. He could sit beside her every day at the library, or the coffee shop, or the quad, and she’d _never know_. That thought makes her want to throw up.

Raven’s waiting for her when she gets home, dragging her into a hug that’s almost painful. “I’m gonna find him,” she promises. “And I’m gonna kick his fucking ass.”

“I just want to eat my weight in junk food and stare at Colin Firth’s face,” Clarke says, resigned, and for once Raven doesn’t argue. They have a popcorn maker she found at some junkyard and rigged up, and they melt about five pounds of butter over it, because reasons.

They stay up watching the cheesiest British coming of age flicks they can find—which basically means a lot of _St. Trinian’s_ , and don’t go to sleep until late, which means Clarke feels like death in the morning.

She waits until Raven leaves for her early morning coding class, before she gives in and looks up the student website, under podcasts, scrolling down until she finds one that looks promising, called _Bellum(y) Se Ipsum Alet_.

It’s him, of course, because who else would pick that stupid title? Mostly he rambles on about the Romans, particularly their time in Great Britain, which is frustratingly interesting because Clarke never really learned about it in history class. Sometimes he talks about mythology, too, which is always great, and occasionally he’ll let some personal tidbits leak in—complaining about his sister needing a ride, only to start bragging about her GPA; meeting his friend Miller for drinks, who is, Clarke realizes a little uncomfortably, the same Miller _she_ knows; and, in the October archives, he starts talking about _her_.

It’s basically what she was doing in October—vague-bashing about this anonymous person, except he calls her _Princess_ , and mostly just complains about her taste in music, or her _hair_ , of all things, which she doesn’t start to get until a few minutes later.

He says _I still don’t know why she has her hair like that, it’s so—distracting_ , and then it clicks.

Bellamy Blake had a crush on her, and was an asshole about it. Honestly, she’d find it funny if it wasn’t so infuriating. He was every little boy who pulled her pigtails on the playground, because they couldn’t just be fucking _nice_.

But then November swings around, and the podcasts start changing. He still mostly rants about Romans and Athena and how many STD’s Zeus probably had—but then he’ll reference a comment she made in one of her shows, about the myth of Leda, or when she got in a minor spat with a caller about the history of Jazz. And he sounds like he actually _respects_ her opinion, and agrees with it.

Clarke shuts her laptop in a daze, barely managing to shrug on her biggest sweater, the one that swallows her whole. She’s not really sure where she’s going, since her only class today isn’t until two, but she needs to _move_ , and get out of her dorm room, so she takes off towards the library, aimless.

She sees them almost instantly—dozens and dozens and dozens, more than ever before. Plain sheets of computer pages, with enormous letters in big bold ink. I’M SORRY, over and over, all around, like he wasn’t sure where to hang them so she might see, and panicked.

Clarke doesn’t work that night, so she doesn’t know if he tries to call. She still goes to bed annoyed—but mostly she’s annoyed that she can’t hate him, not really. Her nemesis is also the guy she wants to date, and she’s not sure how they don’t cancel each other out, but.

She never knew AUXM Guy, not really. He was some sarcastic words and tacky photoshop. But Bellamy—she _knew_ Bellamy. She’s pretty sure she still does.

“You might be right,” she tells Raven, who’s tinkering with one of the members of her robot legion. They’re small robots, like Roombas, but Clarke thinks they might be like ants, lifting five times their weight, or something. “About banging my nemeses.”

“I’m always right,” Raven says, not missing a beat, which is the opposite of helpful. But then she squints up at Clarke, lying face down on her mattress, like she’s assessing her. “ _Love Actually_?”

Clarke heaves a sigh too big for her body and grins into her pillow. “If you insist.”

They stay up too late again, because they’re nineteen and in college and that’s the sort of thing they’re supposed to do, _on principle_. But it still means Clarke feels like death in the morning, _again_ , and it’s a problem this time, because she has a 9 am class on the Polynesian War, which she absolutely cannot nap in.

She stops by the coffee shop before class, and perks up automatically at the smell of fresh caffeine. Plus, Octavia’s working the register, and Octavia is definitely Clarke’s coffee shop crush, and would maybe be more, if she wasn’t already dating Clarke’s favorite TA, Lincoln.

“Clarke!” Octavia beams brightly, brighter than usual, which is a little strange, but she’s a pretty bubbly person in general. Maybe she’s just had a triple espresso, who knows. “It’s so good to see you!”

Clarke grins, a little bemused. She and Octavia bonded at the beginning of the year over their shared love of chocolate muffins and unusual fashion, so it’s not unusual for them to strike up conversation whenever Clarke comes in, but they’re not really the type of friends who hang out.

“Yeah, you too. Uh, just a latte? For the road.”

“Sure!” Octavia chirps, grinning all the while, so Clarke can see the overwhelming whiteness of her teeth. “I’ll be right back with that!”

Clarke steps off to the side counter, so the guy behind her can order, and she can’t really help herself from glancing over at the corkboard by the door. AUXM Guy used to hang his insults there, and Clarke often considered just asking Octavia who he was. She could probably give a decent description, even now. Octavia’s good with faces.

Sterling, the new guy, a scrawny freshman with some seriously shaky hands that always make Clarke nervous when he’s holding coffee, reads out the to-go cup that must belong to the guy after her, who ordered something simple, like a black tea.

“Uh,” Sterling frowns a little, confused. “’That Asshole’?”

Clarke whirls around, jerkily, nearly falling over herself, so the guy has to reach out and steady her by the shoulders. He’s tall, and tan, with messy hair and freckles and she hadn’t ever really given a face to AUXM Guy _or_ Bellamy, but she suddenly knows this is him. Somehow, he fits them both, exactly.

But he’s also fidgeting in place, looking overwhelmingly nervous.

“I thought about just leaving,” he admits. “I figured you wouldn’t want to even look at me.”

Clarke hesitates for a minute. She hadn’t really decided, until now, whether she was going to forgive him, or not. But now she knows. “I don’t mind looking at you,” she says, and his eyes go so wide, so hopeful, she can’t possibly hate him. “You’re pretty easy on the eyes.”

He laughs a little, breathless and relieved, and she sees his eyes flick down to her mouth, landing on the ring through her lip. He wets his own. “I know you already paid for this latte, but could I buy the next one?”

She hums, pretending to think it over, as Octavia hands over her cup with a smirk. “I never say no to free stuff,” she tells him, and he grins.

“I remember.” He glances at Octavia and back, clearing his throat. “While I’m airing all my laundry—this is my little sister,” he points to her with his cup, and Octavia grins wider.

Now that he’s pointed out, the similarities are obvious, of course, and Clarke glares at her accusingly. “You couldn’t warn me?”

“Nope,” Octavia says, popping the _p_ , and prances off to wipe the counters or stock lids or something, looking altogether too pleased with herself for keeping the secret.

“So, um,” Clarke starts, turning back to him, and—he’s staring at her mouth again, while clearly trying _not_ to, and she finally takes him all in. He looks, _comfortable_ , in jeans and a gray sweater, with a pair of thin metal glasses hooked over the neckline. He’s wearing a beat up old messenger bag of scuffed leather, clearly worn and lived-in. He smells like mint, but not the toothpaste-peppermint that Clarke’s used to, more like the actual herb. It’s a little overwhelming, how much she’s into him, when it’s only been five minutes.

“I have a class in like twenty minutes,” she continues, snapping them both back to attention. “Which is enough time for fancy overpriced scones.”

He grins, messy and crooked and impossible not to like. “Awesome.”

He walks her to class after, and there’s an awkward moment where he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch her, which is cute, but—Clarke’s been wanting to make out with him basically since _12 Days of Christmas_ , and now that she _can_ , she’s not about to miss out on it.

So she grabs his Old Navy sweater and pulls down, and he makes a little pleased noise, surprised, before opening his mouth and letting her in. He runs his tongue over her ring, which makes her laugh, and when they pull back, his hand is in her hair, the other playing with the ruffles of her skirt.

“I’m sorry,” he says, but his mouth’s a little swollen, and keeps distracting her. “I wanted to tell you, but—honestly, I thought you’d hang up on me.”

“I probably would have,” she agrees. “But you still should have told me.”

“I know, I—” he says, and she puts her hand over his mouth.

“I forgive you,” she grins, reaching up to press a kiss to his jaw. “It’s Christmas, after all.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, folding his hand around hers to squeeze it. “Christmas spirit—I keep telling you.”

Bellamy works the afternoon shift at the communications desk, which is apparently how he was able to make _so_ many copies; by taking advantage of the copy machine by his desk.

He calls her the moment he gets out, and she picks up with a smile.

“AUXM All-Stars, this is Clarke. What are you wearing?”

Bellamy laughs, and when she looks up she can see her coworkers high fiving and changing the dry erase countdown, with glee.

“Is radio sex the new phone sex?” he teases. “Won’t your boyfriend be jealous?”

“No way,” she says, making a face even though he can’t see it. “My boyfriend’s too busy shit talking _himself_.”

“What a tool.”

“Yeah, he’s a real ass when he’s not being awesome,” she agrees. “So, I’ve already got the carols all lined up for you,” she says. “Because I’m the actual best.”

“Definitely. Do I get to know what they are?”

“And here I thought you _liked_ surprises,” she smirks, and he huffs a little. “You’ll find out in a minute—go big or go home, right?”

“Right,” he agrees, and she takes him off the air, queuing up _All I Want For Christmas_.

“Subtle,” he says, once he recognizes the tune, but she can tell he’s grinning. Clarke kicks her feet up on the desk and leans back in her chair with a happy sigh.

“I’m thinking we could do with being more direct,” she muses. “Hi Bellamy, I’m Clarke, and I want to date you.”

“Hi Clarke, I’m Bellamy. I’m stupidly into you.”

She grins, tipping her head back towards the ceiling. “Now that’s the kind of content I like to hear. So, what _are_ you wearing?”

Bellamy huffs a laugh. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. Tis the season, Blake. Give a little.”

“Okay,” he says, voice going low with warning. “But just remember you asked.”

Clarke hums a little, for him to continue, as the next song starts up.

Yeah, she’s definitely feeling the Christmas spirit, now.


End file.
